


Beyond These Trees

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Character Death, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Intimacy, Isolation, Kissing, Loneliness, M/M, Snow, Snow Storm, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide, University, Winter, barns, colonial house, dorm halls, east coast, farmer - Freeform, horse, lake, student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 08:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: Tom is a university student with severe depression. He stays on campus for the winter holidays, and after a harrowing experience, meets a man in whom he recognizes all the darkest parts of his broken heart, and in whom he begins to trust there can be relief from the pain and the sadness of being.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've written about suicide before in my story Salt of the Dream. This is a bit different in that I explored the theme of suicide a little deeper. The urge to write this came after a particularly bad bout with my own depression a month or so ago, when I had many of the same thoughts Tom does in this story. This is the product of a personal writing exercise in hoping to better understand my own limitations and desires and fears, and how to overcome what hurts me the most when I feel the most terrible and lost.
> 
> This was beta'd by duskyhuedladysatan. Thank you for always listening. 
> 
> Yesterday  
> When I woke up  
> The sun fell to the ground and rolled away  
> Flowers beheaded themselves  
> All that’s left alive here is me  
> And I barely feel like living  
> ~Rupi Kaur, depression is a shadow living inside me
> 
>    
> Thrown here or found  
> to freeze or to thaw  
> so long we become the flowers
> 
> When the cattle show fear...  
> When the buzzards get loud...  
> after the insects have made their claim  
> and the foxes have known our taste  
> and the raven has had its say
> 
> I'd be home with you.  
> ~Hozier, In a Week

Sometimes it was enough to simply lie in bed, palm to his chest, and feel his heart beating. It was enough, but just barely. Sometimes the sadness was too big, the water too deep, and he was crushed beneath it all, dragged under, strung to the incessant booming of an organ he’d rather not feel. There it would be, that faint rhythm, that rumored telltale sign of life, and his blinks were like waves upon the sea.

 

The corner of his window began to lighten as the peach fuzz edge of dawn crept across the mauve sky. The dorms were like tombs every winter. Freshman year, sophomore year, junior year, senior. He never went home for break, would cocoon himself in the New England Decembers that, when looked at just right, could have been the frozen wastes of another, distant planet. He was the sole inhabitant, a lost pioneer accepting of his fate to exist and die alone.

 

Every year he applied for special permission to remain on campus. And every year his request was granted, the lucky draw of a sympathetic dean who smiled kindly at Tom’s emotionless face, who shook his hand and wished him a happy Christmas, reminded him of the number to the local fire station in case of an emergency, the holiday hours for the market in town, how to adjust the heat in his wing of the dorms. Everywhere else would be shut down, the cold allowed in, frost laying claim to the towering old buildings of the university. All the rolling hills throughout campus carpeted in downy snowfall, several feet deep. He supposed he should be grateful, that the school would cater to him like this, make such an exception. And he supposed he was a bit grateful, but it was such a small kernel of acknowledgment inside him so as to be practically nothing. He knew, at another time in his life, he might have felt more it. Felt more.

 

The dorms had slowly emptied out the past week, and a great hush had settled into the buildings, whispered along the floorboards in the long hallways. He had five weeks to be utterly alone, no assignments or courses to attend, no taxing, obligatory greetings. No talking at all. Not that he did all that much to begin with, but it was always a surprise to him at the start of every spring semester to hear his own voice, the low timbre of it, scratchy with disuse. As if he remembered, for the first time, that he was indeed alive and could sing if he wanted. Could laugh.

 

But he never wanted.

 

Lying there in bed, blankets twisted around him, arms flung up on the pillow, he watched the sun rise and thought of the lake. And he breathed, and breathed. He blinked, and blinked, gaze tracking the slowly melting frost crystals that had etched across his windowpane overnight, wondering if the lake was finally frozen over. He’d discovered it when his natural sciences class took a day trip a mile into the forest to study the body of water and surrounding fauna. In the full tilt of spring the lake was a charming clear green color, with darting fish and swaying plant life. Turtles sunned themselves while swarms of mosquitos followed them in obnoxious clouds as they took notes and recorded videos on their many devices. Tom had hung around the edges, ball cap pulled low over his eyes, notebook hugged tightly to his chest, gazing at the calmly rippling water, the great mass of it. The sunlight glared brightly off the buzzing surface, stinging his vision. It left pulsing orbs on the backs of his eyelids for an hour afterward.

 

Sighing, he hugged the blanket tighter against him. Come evening, the frost crystals would return with a vengeance, the air a little colder with every day that passed, until it reached that point that he would become so numb with it, he wouldn’t know where his frozen sheets began and his own thin skin ended.

 

Incredibly, his heart would still beat. While he slept and dreamed, eyes rolling under his lids, his heart would beat.

 

Sometimes the thought of all the isolation he created for himself after the essays were written and the exams taken, once everyone was gone and the buildings fell into darkness, the mounds of snow outside lit only by the single yellow square of his own dorm room, sometimes the isolation felt like freedom. Like fresh air in his lungs, like he could finally cry in peace.

 

And he would cry, in bed at night, in bed at dawn, over his breakfast cereal, as he stood at the sink with his dinner dishes, gazing blindly out the window at all the nothing. All the nothing blooming within him, as heavy as sand, as stifling. Tears would track down his face, often unnoticed, when he upended one of the many puzzle boxes shoved under his bed, arranging the pieces right side up, tears spilling down his cheeks as he found the four corners and set aside all the edges, connecting them one by one until he had just the frame of this bigger picture he couldn’t yet see.

 

Sometimes he went outside and walked the perimeter of campus, bordered by a tall brick wall covered with thick ivy. He trailed his gloved hand through the brittle leaves, snow dusting onto his coat sleeve, crunching loudly under his boots. His breaths were great plumes before him, eyes squinted at the watery sun coasting the arc of sky, where the caws of the crows circling were like dark pinwheels. Shallow inhales, fire coaxing in his chest, he attempted –nearly every day—the trek through the woods to where that gorgeous, terrifying lake lay waiting.

 

And nearly every day he’d make it back to his dorm shaking and red-cheeked, falling to his knees in the shower, steam billowing around him, never having reached it. Too cold, too afraid, the despair and outrage at war within him. To try, and to fail. There was nothing emptier than that. Staring into the colossal vast void that stared right back, he made a silent vow to himself to make it, to take those final steps, to finally breathe as deep as he could.

 

Puzzles and books in the evenings, splash of tears in his tea, sleep late every morning, nose warmed by a kind, peeping sun. He imagined this would be his bleak existence until the start of the spring semester, which would be only a slight improvement by the interesting distractions of his lectures and seminars.

 

What he would give to exist without the weight of all he felt – and didn’t feel. To float freely.

 

Driven by this silent resolve, he woke the next morning and dressed with grim determination. Dark jeans and a black sweater, lacing up his scuffed Vans, beige wool beanie pulled low on his forehead, he wrapped a purple scarf around his neck last. To stave off the cold, to catch his tears. To make him a little heavier.

 

Before, he would make it almost the entire way, stopping just before breaking into the clearing where the lake waited. There was no name for the dread he felt gasping near those trees, no name for the ache and the anguish, the hope that did not live inside him. Past the tree line was his answer, his salvation. He had only to take it. Had he thought of it countless times in his life? Yes. Had he feared and desired the reprieve? Had he wished to be different? To be fixed? Yes. Yes.

 

Yes.

 

It was more than the weight of the pumping organ in his chest. It was more than the prospect of a degree and future employment and possible connections with people that didn’t leave him mournful and furious, more than the tiniest sliver of opportunity to _outgrow this_.

 

It was living with it now, enduring it now, facing and battling and exorcising it now, that made the brightest sense. And as he pushed through the trees, sharp branches snagging and tearing at his scarf, that he ascended from the dark and damp place he’d resided in for so long, and finally caught a glimpse of the shore.

 

The bank was pebbled with moldy driftwood and black pebbles, clumps of soggy leaves and mounds of snow. Moose droppings littered the area and, breath fogging out in front of him, he cast a nervous glance around to make sure none were nearby. The lake spread out before him like foggy, frosted glass, vapors swirling near the edges.

 

He dropped his gaze, chin quivering. Glancing around, he spotted the large piece of wood a short distance away. It was as tall as his hips, little thicker than his arms. A broken tree limb, it had a splintered, sharp end, rotted with black. Stooping, he picked it up, felt its heft, the dead core of it. The wind picked up, flicking stinging snow into his lashes, setting his body to shake. But he turned. He looked it straight in the eye, and breathed out.

 

The first step onto the ice was the worst. He thought it might crack right then. But the surface held his weight, and he took another tentative step.

 

Six feet in and a gust of wind nearly knocked him over. He was struck suddenly with the realization of how far he was from the school, how long it was until term started again, until the other students came back and the dorm hall was filled with the riotous cacophony of hundreds of people living together, the voices and beeping electronics, the stomping footsteps, the ding of the elevators, the alarm clocks, the laughter.

 

He wouldn’t be there. Or would he?

 

And as he inched his way to the middle of the frozen lake, as he watched the ice fade from foggy white to glacier blue, he wondered at the depth. At the debris clinging to the bottom.

 

Wouldn’t he?

 

Gripping the branch a little tighter, Tom lifted it a foot off the surface and, taking a deep breath, brought it down hard on the ice. The sound echoed hollowly in the clearing, resonating weakly back to him. Gritting his teeth, he brought the stick down once more, and there, with a terrifying and exhilarating crack, the ice splintered like lightning.

 

Or would he?

 

And as the ice groaned and fractured in the eternal moment after, in the immortal heartbeat of a single blink – as the surface beneath the worn sole of his shoe disintegrated completely – he knew his answer, and was swallowed whole.


	2. Chapter 2

He only barely made it back. Gasping that first painful breath after rupturing from the lake, he had nearly no memory of pulling himself up, using the wooden stick – impossibly, incredibly still in his fist – as leverage to free himself from the frozen depths of the water. Dragging himself through the barren forest, sobbed moans reverberating into the sky, struggling through the snow, teeth chattering as his fingers slowly turned blue, he finally caught blurry sight of the tall spires of the university’s historic clock tower. Eyes burning, he crawled up the incline to where the gate stood ajar, swinging, metal creaking loudly.

 

There were patches of memory missing from his head. Leaving the ice. Getting through the door. Making it up to his floor, down the hall, and to the communal showers. There were only blank spots, white noise, nothing. But one moment he was trudging through waist deep snow and the next he was lying naked in one of the shower stalls, shivering violently, pain lancing up his fingers and toes, hands clawed, knees vibrating, his heart angry at him.

 

“I’m sorry,” he moaned, trembling so hard his feet slapped the tiles helplessly. The hot water bled into his bones, liquefying them, easing him into something less gruesome, more alive. Eventually he stopped shaking and managed to sit up. Wincing with his every breath, he studied himself rather piteously, noting the deep bruises in his palms, the cuts in his skin, shinbones bleeding more copiously now that his blood was warmed. All evidence of his struggle to get out of the lake.

 

He wouldn’t think on it. He wouldn’t analyze. He simply pulled himself to his feet and limped to his bedroom, water dripping on the carpet, soggy crumbs by which to find his way back to whatever it was he almost did.

 

That night he slept for nearly sixteen hours, exhaustion swarming his consciousness into oblivion, where he might forget.

 

**

 

Staring out the kitchen window one afternoon, eyes on that infinite nothing, his attention was shaken by a streak of brown through the snow. His gaze tugged painfully into focus and he saw, with no short sense of surprised wonder, a horse running in happy circles on the grounds just below. He shut the tap and hurried to his room, shoved on his boots and tore into a loose sweater, wrapping on a scarf quickly as he took the stairs to the main floor. Pushing outside, he blinked fast at the horse in the yard, so much bigger than he imagined, muscled dark brown body with blond mane and tail, long and swishing in excitement, snorted breaths glowing white in the air.

 

“Horse,” Tom gasped, his first word in an age, and the beast’s head swiveled in his direction. Inside his chest, his own heart galloped wildly, eyes zipping to that beautiful long face, the sharply pointed velvety ears, a lead wrapped loosely around the neck. And he gave a shaky sort of half-smile as his blood whistled through his veins, the horse taking trotting steps toward him.

 

“Oh. Um.” He eased back and felt the cold wall of the dorm hall, knew there was nowhere to go. Very quiet in all his lordly wisdom, the horse closed the distance between them and stared at Tom with oily black eyes, long lashes fanned and delicate.

 

Very gently, the horse nosed at Tom’s hairline and huffed a hot breath, and the sensation was so wonderful, so unexpected, so _alive_ that Tom gave a short startled laugh, eyes squeezed shut. Amazement buffered through him. The beast sniffed at him again, downy lips tickling at his ear so that he was reduced to breathless giggles, heat swarming his face. Was he wild, he thought, peeking at the tremendously long mane that nearly reached the horse’s hooves, that fantastic tail flicking back and forth. But the rope…

 

Beyond the wall there was a shout, a man’s voice. “Samson!”

 

The horse turned his long neck and snorted at the wrought iron gate that had swung open with the cold winter winds. A tall figure stepped into view, clutched at the gates, spotted them, and called that name again. The gate clanged as it was hauled open.

 

“Samson,” Tom whispered, and the horse turned back to him, stomping his mighty hoof, cleaving cleanly through the snow.

 

Footsteps raced their way and the thought of another person, of speaking again, weakened and dulled him so quickly, he felt the mountains of sand descend again. As the man struggled up the hill of snow, Tom grazed his fingers across Samson’s broad cheek and then slipped away, through the doors into the building, bolting them. He receded into the darkened hall, the grand staircase rising beyond him in shadow. He heard the horse snort again, almost mischievously, as the man finally caught up with him. Inching over to the bay of windows, Tom listened to the man speak to the animal, caught sight of him through the frosted glass.

 

Wearing dark jeans and a heavy winter jacket, his hands were gloveless, big and long fingered, pale from the cold. Blond hair curled thickly from under the cowboy hat he wore, sheepskin lining the collar of his coat.

 

He took hold of the rope and looked around with something like confusion on his face. Tom gasped and slunk back against the wall, knowing, wildly, that the man was looking for him, had seen him.

 

“Thought there was someone here,” he heard him murmur to the horse, and because he couldn’t help himself, Tom risked another glance. The man’s face was in Samson’s mane, running a soothing hand down the horse’s back. “Silly thing. Taking off like that. Come on now, we’re not supposed to be here.” He led the horse in a wide circle and together they walked back through the courtyard and toward the creaking gate. Still, the man swiveled his head around, eyes squinted up at the buildings surrounding the silent center fountain, as if he might catch sight of whoever had been with Samson for those few fleeting moments it took him to reach the horse.

 

But there was nothing but dark, frosted windows, weathered stone as old as the nation. There was no one there. No one that mattered.

 

**

 

For several days he thought of the man’s face, of the elegant dark brows and strong neck, of his hands white against the chocolate brown of the horse. The way he nuzzled into that blond mane, how Samson huffed at his temple in familiar affection.

 

His tears remained steady, the swelling despair in his chest made a little worse by the emotional attachment that man had with his horse. Wracking sobs caught him unawares at the sink, his entire body trembling as the mug he was rinsing slipped from his fingers and clattered to the bottom of the basin, rolling to a stop by the drain. He wasn’t sure how long he didn’t leave his bed that time, gaze fuzzy on the window, not caring if the sun peeked in or not, if the frost crystals melted or not, if it ever dawned again.

 

Curling his fists against his chest, he wept into them, his voice through his sobs like a lighthouse at sea. He was in there, he was still. He mustn’t forget himself. He must remember. To let tears run their course was to accept into his heart a knowledge that sadness and despair were a weight to be endured, a weight that would settle itself into him like a wave soaks into a bank of sand. It seeped into him and became a part of him until there was no telling sand particle from water molecule. Both, in enormous amounts, would kill him. And how they tried, together, to destroy him. What kept him going? His courses that he excelled at? The idea that once school was over he intended to find himself a cabin in the deeper woods of these hundreds of New England acres and live in the quiet and the dark? Was staying in school his one last grasp at remaining normal, at feigning at something? What was it?

 

Was it the idea of these few solitary weeks that he so looked forward to and dreaded beyond compare?

 

Where was his heart?

 

Palm to his chest. Oh. There it was.

 

Another wave of tears.

 

After the sun checked in on him one morning like a fussy nursemaid, he made himself move. First, he pushed the blankets down to his waist and hissed at the frigid cold that rushed over him. Second, he pushed himself to sit at the edge of the bed, staring at his pale feet on the dark wooden floors. There was a gnawing sensation in his stomach and he remembered he was probably hungry. Third, bathroom. Fourth, teeth. Fifth, food.

 

So far it had only been the gentle but continuous snowfalls that New England winters were known for, not frightening, not yet. Eventually a storm would hit and he would need to prepare for that. Go into town, stock up on some items.

 

Baby steps.

 

After breakfast, he rinsed his plates. Put on some jeans and his boots. Long sleeved shirt. Thick, zippered coat, gloves, scarf, woolen beanie. An astronaut for the frozen ruins.

 

He took the stairs one infinite step at a time.

 

At the double front doors, he stared at the wasteland of this planet he inhabited, the buildings remnants of a long-foundered civilization, and believed the sky might evaporate him if he went outside.

 

He opened the door and he waited, and when nothing happened, he sighed and put his hands in his pockets to walk the perimeter. Science hall, library, English and Literature hall, Classics and History, cafeteria, dormitories. He passed each one and touched the cornerstone, his footsteps disappearing as snow continued to fall. At the front gate, he slowed, the ivy whispering in the breeze, and stared at the spot where a long-fingered hand curled around the wrought-iron.

 

Inside his chest, his heart woke up, sluggish from sleep.

 

From his position, the man couldn’t see him, could only see the imposing stone façade of the dormitory building. Wondering, perhaps still, about the boy he was sure he had seen.

 

Very slowly, he stepped into view and the man’s eyes – an unnatural, daring electric blue – widened on him. He was taller than Tom by quite a bit and broader of shoulder. Vast strength immediately apparent. But he was calmed by the open but quiet shock on his handsome face, curiosity bleeding into his features. There was something a little wild in his gaze, something a little untamed, as if a small sort of desperation lived there. Tom couldn’t place it, but it looked familiar.

 

They remained quiet, staring at each other, until Tom could no longer stand the burn of another person’s attention and dropped his gaze, sliding a foot back, then the other, ready to retreat.

 

“I thought you were a ghost,” the man finally whispered, his voice cavern deep, honeyed and warm. “I thought I’d gone crazy, remembered seeing legs by the front of Samson.” He gave a small smile, his knuckles white on the wrought-iron. Tom said nothing, the wind playing with the few curls poking out from his beanie. The man visibly swallowed, gaze drifting down Tom’s form, to where the snow rose above his ankles. “You a student here?”

 

Tom gave a small nod.

 

Blue eyes shuttered up at the buildings. “It’s spooky. You can’t be alone.” It wasn’t a question, or maybe it was.

 

Tom said nothing, only turned and started up the hill. There was shuffling behind him.

 

“I’m Chris,” the man said a little louder to be heard above the wind. The gate clanged as the man changed his grip, but it didn’t creak. It remained closed. “Are you okay up here?”

 

Tom paused, blinking down at the snow. Was he okay? Was this indeed a frozen wasteland on another planet? He peered up at the blinding sky and knew in the deeper recesses of his dim heart that he wasn’t, and it wasn’t.

 

He glanced over his shoulder at the man and was strangely touched by the concerned, expectant look on his face. Tom smiled, small, and continued up the hill.


	3. Chapter 3

Brushing his teeth in the bathroom the next morning, he stared at his reflection and realized where he’d seen the haunted look on Chris’s face before.

 

Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe this was his purgatory, to roam the halls and grounds of this abandoned university, half hoping for the flick of a horse’s tail, the rasp of long fingers at his wrist, his heart to boom.

 

**

 

He saw him again twice after that. Both times Chris skirted just along the edge of his vision, like a nervous specter cringing at his own boots sinking through the snow. By the massive metal gate leading into campus, a tall shadow in the darkened recess of the archway; again at the hedgerow by the Sciences building, where gaps in the towering shrubbery grew wider in the dead of winter and a quiet, a curious stranger peering through as Tom walked his laps around the campus.

 

The second time, he slowed by the open space through which he could spy the larger swaths of open land around the campus, the far-off tree line that hid the town and other private properties. There stood Chris, one hand curled gently around a thicker branch, bare of leaves, gnarled and twisting away into the dark. His jean jacket was stained near the cuffs, a coppery brown, like shoe shine or chocolate syrup had splashed on his sleeve and dried there unevenly.

 

Tom’s eyes drifted up to his face, at the soft, chapped skin of his cheeks, pink in the cold air. Chris squinted at him kindly, blond hair shifting in the wind.

 

Hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, Tom said, “Where’s Samson?” His voice was scratchy, dust lining his throat, and he cleared it softly, a little embarrassed.

 

Chris’s eyes sparkled with amusement, his attention honed on him. “You speak, then. I thought I’d imagined you. A little ghost in this scary school.” He eyed the looming institution behind Tom with barely veiled intimidation and then gave a small frown, blinking toward the empty land behind him. “Samson’s in the barn…I think.” He shrugged and smiled. “He’s willful.”

 

Tom nodded, remembering the almost knowing way the horse had stared at him, approaching with purpose and a little bit of mischief. He was startled to realize he wished the horse had tagged along, that he would very much have liked to see him again, experience that enormous strength and heat, the majestic way a horse held its place in the world.

 

In his own odd and endearing way, Chris was a strange companion to Samson, as if the horse ruled the man. But then he recalled the concern in Chris’s voice that day Samson snuck onto campus, something laced with distress, as if the horse might be the only friend he had.

 

“What are you doing out here?” he asked softly. Chris leaned into the hedge, angling down a little to see Tom through the gap.

 

“I was…looking,” Chris started, brows bunching delicately. His hand on the branch tightened. “I don’t know. I just – Guess I wanted to see you again.” There was that soft smile, revealing straight white teeth and clean gums. It crowned the corners of his eyes in faint wrinkles, sparking the blue into something more vibrant, like jewels.

 

Tom’s breath stalled in his chest, a flutter like moth wings in his belly.

 

“Why?” he whispered, foot nudging closer to the hedge, weight held tight and close against the chill.

 

Another smile, heat rising to his skin in splotchy waves, Chris shrugged again. “You were so quiet the other day. And it didn’t feel so much like it was from being alone – which I think you are – but more from some kind of sadness I might know.”

 

Tom said nothing, only stared.

 

Color flamed up Chris’s neck and he shook his head, squeezing the branch before letting it go. He stuffed his hands in his jeans. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying—.”

 

“Are you sad?”

 

Tom’s question cut through the cold air and left the space between them stuffy and void.

 

This time Chris didn’t hesitate meeting his gaze, only sighed out through his nose, acceptance settled on him like a shroud.

 

“Not really,” he said softly, his breath pluming in the air. “Not anymore.”

 

And standing there with the sun a weak watery smudge in the sky, the breeze like cold fingers stealing down their collars, something softened between them, an infinitesimal splintering of the divisive border that exists between strangers. An awakening, an acknowledgement, an awareness.

 

Tom’s stumbling brain didn’t know what to make of it, the velvet crumbling of his vulnerable bones. Heat swamped his own cheeks and he fell back a step, mouth parting in muted wonder at the galaxy dust beginning to swirl inside him.

 

He didn’t say that he was happy for Chris. What did that even feel like? He didn’t say anything at all. He only blinked up at him like an alarmed owl and retreated beyond the hedge, hurrying down the hill and to his dorm building, hands shaking in his pockets. 

 

 

**

 

Tears soaked his pillow that night, head pounding with every thunderous heartbeat. But the moon was a murmuring consolation on his worried brow, easing him to sleep. Dreams of running horses and wild geese honking in the sky, the slow-limbed struggle in water, flame-licked clouds and ice on his tongue, the papery whisper of something sharp dragging over his knuckles.

 

He awoke to feathery gasps he realized were his own. Pulse erratic, sweat blooming on his skin, he couldn’t shake the anxiety bubbling in his gut and he half-wondered, a little crazily, if people his age ever died of strokes. But ever since his visit to the lake, he’d been plagued by such dreams, some more vivid than others, the same air of frenzy yanking him from sleep. No matter his efforts to avoid thoughts of the lake while awake, sleep brought his memories to life.

 

The day wore on in a vague sense of duress, unease crackling just under his skin. Some hot tea settled his nerves by the afternoon, and he spent an hour in the cozy armchair of the study lounge, facing the floor-to-ceiling window that showed the edges of several buildings, most of the town, and the thick clusters of bare-limped trees to the east. Beyond was the lake, and his skin pimpled with remembrance.

 

A book stole his attention for a few minutes before his eyes snagged on a passing bird and he was lost to the laze of his mind again.

 

The building rumbled behind him, hot air pushing through the ancient bricks and open hallways to embrace him where he sat.

 

Some desperate, self-preserving part of his brain recognized the threat of the gathering grey clouds overhead and switched on the radio in the common room. The announcement for the storm came as no surprise. It was predicted to hit later that night, so he laced up his boots and headed into town, towing behind him a red wagon he’d found in the maintenance shed.

 

The road was slick with ice, and he stuck to the shoulder, sloshy with dirty snow but less slippery. The town bustled with activity, people hurrying to secure anything that could be tossed by the wind, latching window awnings, animals herded into barns, tires chained. At the market, he loaded his wagon with a case of water, milk, eggs, bread, orange juice, sliced meat, canned vegetables, spaghetti and tomato sauce, matches, oil for an indoor lantern, a flash light with batteries. Just before checking out he caught sight of a packet of coconut cookies and added those in too.

 

Back on the road, he pulled on the handle of the wagon, slipping more than once and crashing to his knees. The third time he felt the warm, sticky flow of blood under his jeans and gritted through the pain, grunting as he hauled the wagon back to campus. It would be impossible to pull the loaded wagon through the snow-covered hill that led to his dormitory, so he made several trips back and forth, dumping his supplies just inside the main hall and finally carrying the wagon itself on the last trip. He left it upended on the ground outside and hurriedly bolted the door. His limbs were shaking from carrying everything, his knee throbbed, and his hands were frozen under the sodden layer of his gloves. But he loaded everything into the elevator and heaved in air as he rose to the second floor, water pooling on the floor around his boots and darkening the cheap carpet.

 

By the time everything was stored in the refrigerator and stocked into the cabinets, he was nearly dead with fatigue. The winds had grown strong in the time it took him to put everything away, buffeting the walls and rattling the windows. The long line of closed doorways in the hall rang with a vague sense of threat, as if something lurked, something watched. But he was desperate to shower while there was still hot water, and so ignored the hallway and slunk into the common bathroom. Steam billowed around him and clung in beaded webs to the high windows. Scrubbing at his hands, he stared at his red fingertips and the bruised ridges where the wagon handle had cut into him, and brought them slowly to his lips, fire pulsing there.

 

Shampooing his hair, he dared to hum, the empty row of shower stalls like eyes on him. And there, in the depth and the dark, lingering back by the row of sinks, it was almost as if someone were breathing. If he turned that very moment, would there be someone there, watching him? Had he not been as alone as he thought?

 

And so he didn’t turn. But it was heavy, just there, that presence. And it wasn’t malignant in any way, or so he thought. It wasn’t threatening or aggressive. It was familiar, almost, an old companion, even. But startling, still, and he was quick to finish and shut off the water. 

 

He’d never felt this in the years before. The dormitory had never felt like a breathing thing. Storms always set his teeth on edge, he reasoned. And this would be his last winter. Because he was wrong. Fear was alive within him, and it was swelling bigger with every gnawing moment he stared into the yawning abyss of his own mental anguish. The pain in his bones, in the softer lining of his ribcage. The throbbing that sobs in the dark induced.

 

Back in his room, he dressed in warm sweat pants and a long-sleeve cotton shirt, pulling on wool socks last. He remembered suddenly his cut knee and searched for a bandage, applying it with careful consideration, strangely fretful about his knee. He very nearly apologized to it.

 

With the storm gathering strength outside, the Wi-Fi signal was shot, so he didn’t even bother with the TV. He didn’t need more white noise. Placing the oil lamp and matches by the bed and the flashlight under his pillow, he curled up under the covers and stared into the night sky, at the furious flakes of snow raining down. The lamp posts just out of view flickered on, timed for darkness, casting the night even blacker beyond the orange beam.

 

Hours may have passed. He fell in and out of sleep. The drifts of snow became thicker, the wind howled louder, the heat in the building stuttered and then failed just as the lamp posts outside shut off from an outage. Cocooned in his blankets, Tom sank in and out of consciousness, burying his head into the pillow in an effort to escape the cold vibrating into the room from the window. It was a stubborn thing, the cold that reached for him, like something possessive, something that had already owned him before.

 

Vaguely, as if in a dream, he thought he heard glass breaking from somewhere in the building.

 

All was dark, all was cold, all was nothing except his small circle of limp heat under the blankets, body shivering, toes curling as he caught the slight break in the air of a voice echoing up to him, doors slamming somewhere beyond. And underneath it all, the thumping of his heart.

 

Maybe he wasn’t the only ghost.


	4. Chapter 4

Teeth chattering, he came to momentarily. The bed was moving. Loud, vicious shrieks of the bedposts sliding along the wooden floor, his window shuddering as he was yanked away from the wall.

 

“What…” he tried, but his lids fell closed again. Ears pricked with sound, the rasp of a match and the burn of phosphorous sulfur in his nose.

 

A hand was suddenly, softly, on his head. “Hey,” the voice said. And then, as if to itself. “Shit. You’re frozen.” More movement, more noise, and then the bed dipped. A warm cloth was placed on his forehead and Tom moaned, leaning into it.

 

“Good. Okay,” the voice said, laughing a little. “I got more.”

 

More hot towels were placed on his neck and face, over his ears, and it was so devastatingly good that he began shivering anew, worse than before.

 

Peeling his eyes open, he saw the man from the gate and the solitary gap in the hedgerow leaning over the oil lamp, adjusting the flame. The golden light dimmed, crowning the room in a soft, ephemeral glow. Tom’s bed was now perched crookedly in the middle of the room, as far from the window as space would allow.

 

“Could have caught your death,” Chris was saying, moving about the dorm room, focused on setting the oil lamp a safe distance away. “My farm is over the rise just east of the school. Lots of trees separate it so one might not know I lived there. But I can see through some patches onto the campus. And I saw the emergency lights go off. Just thought, I can’t leave that boy alone up there during this storm. I just can’t.” He might not have even been aware that Tom was conscious, just speaking to speak.

 

It’s spooky here, he’d said that day by the gate. Doubly so during a storm, Tom knew, shifting a little under the sheets. His movement drew Chris’s attention, and he knelt by the bed, a hand uncertain on the pillow, inches from his head.

 

“Hey there,” he said softly, back with that small smile. His cowboy hat was gone, his hair flattened above his ears like he’d just removed it.

 

And Tom, smile tugged up from some forgotten depth by Chris’s own, rasped, “Hey.”

 

Relief swam into Chris’s eyes and his hand moved another inch, fingertips just grazing Tom’s curls.

 

Tom’s chills doubled, and he sank back under the covers, ready to succumb once more.

 

“Oh. No, no,” Chris whispered, finally cupping his head with that lingering hand, and the heat was immediate and beautiful. Tom’s own hand slipped out and reached up, drawing it low to replace the now cooling towels on his neck. Chris took the towels and tossed them to the floor, both hands now on Tom, murmuring to him, caressing.

 

When Tom’s teeth began their chatter once more, Chris rose to his feet and shucked off his coat in one quick swoop, toeing off his boots in another. Vision dim and a little blurry, Tom watched through the fringe of his lashes, not daring to blink. Left in his cotton shirt and jeans, Chris lifted the blankets and climbed quickly in beside Tom, tucking the blankets back around them. The bed rocked with his weight, felt immediately immensely smaller, nowhere to go but flat smack against that big body.

 

Beyond caring, beyond acknowledging, Tom was driven only by ingrained need and instinct. Warmth. Comfort. Now.

 

Familiars, they were.

 

They wrapped their arms around each other without a second thought, Chris’s head higher than Tom’s, his legs longer too. Nose to the hollow of his throat, Tom knew only smooth skin and a scent like the memory of summer. And there, pounding against his parted mouth, was the strongest heart he’d ever felt, a molten sun fanning its heat outward like rays of fire. Flowing lava. The core of the earth. Melted gold. He may have moaned quietly, dug his nose a little deeper, pressed his cheek flat to that pulse point, marveling at the rasp of stubble.

 

Nothing like his own, indecisive heart.

 

“There now,” Chris whispered, arms tightening. He was pulled flush against Chris’s body, arms securing and holding him, two giant hands rubbing his shoulders and back, coaxing warmth into his blood. Tom’s woolen feet wriggled between strong calves, the long line of their legs tangling in a way that Tom could only identify as deliciously.

 

Delicious as maple waffles with warm, buttery syrup. Delicious as crisp candied apples. Delicious as his acceptance letter to this school, as that first plane ride away from home, as the way the stream in the woods three Aprils ago had bubbled over his bare feet and he’d cried for the first time since he felt safe to do so. Relief and happiness. These had been foreign to him for such a long time. Delight at sweet things. Beautiful things. Simple pleasant things. They had been muted from his sight, all his senses. When had he last laughed before Samson found him interesting enough to sniff at? When had he last answered a friendly text or a phone call?

 

When hadn’t the world been cast in gray?

 

When was the last time he had felt like _enough_? Worth something? Deserving of anything? When was the last time he had said good morning to someone without prompting, and actually meant it? For how long had this fog been in his head? How long had he been pretending?

 

But here was this furnace of a man, with a voice that rivaled thunder, with hands that spanned the width of his back, whose very presence honed Tom’s senses to sharpened peaks, letting him feel and smell and soak in another human being. This man who had seen him across the expanse of a snow-laden courtyard and worried for him enough to come find him in the middle of this frightful storm. Whose whispers through the winter-dead branches of a towering hedge still laced the edges of Tom’s dreams, like a twisted story told at firesides the world over.

 

Had he denied himself this, or had the broken thing inside him?

 

Since when had someone touched him?

 

It wasn’t the sands that engulfed him this time, but the crashing waves of ocean water. They rose to harrowing heights inside his chest, and his face crumpled against the warm skin of this warm person. Shoulders hitched up, his trembling took on a more desperate tone, sobs clawing their way up his throat, a deluge of tears down his face.

 

“No,” Chris murmured into his hair. “No. It’s okay, sweetheart. Be still.”

 

The storm raged throughout the night, and Chris held him as he wept. And when he fell into a fitful doze, Chris was there still, his enormous heat settling into his bones, the oil lamp glowing steadily. Twice he woke to Chris’s hand on his neck, fingers playing gently with his hair, his other hand splayed between his shoulder blades.

 

Engulfed. He was engulfed by him.

 

Twice Tom fell back asleep with the ghost of a smile on his face, each time his dreams less ragged.

 

In the morning, the sun peeked in at the usual angle but found him and the bed missing, the square of weak light hovering on the dusty floorboards. Face pressed into a hard bicep, Tom moved slowly onto his back, his body sore from being scrunched in one position all night.

 

Soft, creamy streaks of sunlight flickered across the ceiling, birds twittering somewhere outside. Beside him, Chris breathed deeply, strands of his hair swept back on the pillow, some curling under his ear. He was sound asleep, lashes fanned over the delicate skin under his eyelids, thick and dark. Lush lashes. Like a cow’s.

 

Tom’s fingers twitched where they rested on the heavy arm Chris had draped over his stomach. A good weight, something he’d never really known. Heat and weight. A person should never be denied such things, even by their own standards. Watching him now, Tom was aware of the chill in the air, the creeping cold that snagged under the blankets and twisted into the hollow spaces where their long limbs rested. He shifted, trying to escape it, and that’s when Chris awoke.

 

Blue eyes like the where sea glaciers roamed, unfocused for a moment, sharpened suddenly on him. Inside his chest, Tom’s heart ratcheted up a notch.

 

“Sorry,” he heard himself whisper. He licked his lips, and dropped his gaze. “Your arm is probably dead.”

 

Chris’s sleepy face bloomed into a smile, and he shook his head. “It’s okay.”

 

Oh, the crackly depth of that voice. Tom could sketch mountain ranges and cloud formations and the diving swoops of majestic eagles in humble homage to such a voice.

 

Swiping a large hand down his face, Chris rubbed sleep away and very carefully sat up in bed. With shaking hands, Tom held the blanket to his chest, the intimacy of the movement – of his position on the bed, of all that it might imply – slowly overwhelmed his thoughts, and he could only watch with a dry mouth as Chris rose to his feet. His jeans and cotton shirt were adorably wrinkled, twisted a little at the waist, his wide back muscles flexing as he bent to retrieve his shoes. Shoulder blades like unfurling wings. It was impossible to have such strength, was it not? The beauty in the hard lines of this man’s figure was the stuff of Tom’s most private fantasies. Having slept snuggled against it the entire night seemed now as impossible as a green sky.

 

Glancing at him over his shoulder, Chris chuckled kindly, sitting back down at the edge of the bed and pulling his boots on. “I can hear you thinking.” His eyes crinkled. “Are your wheels turning?”

 

Tom blushed despite himself and gave a small shrug. “I suppose so.”

 

“You spend a lot of time in there?” Chris asked, finishing with his boots and leaning back on the bed, one arm propped over Tom’s legs, staring down at him. Heat bloomed in his chest, but he swallowed, struggling to stay calm. He nodded, and Chris mirrored it, serious.

 

“I used to be like that too. Still kinda am, but it was so much…worse. Before.” He plucked at the thread in the blanket, sorting through his thoughts. “Now, it’s a little lighter. A little better. I still got the farm and Samson. Keep me busy. I’m pretty content.”

 

They looked at each other in the quiet, cool air pressing in, the oil lamp on the floor stuttering through the dredges of oil remaining. 

 

“How are you feeling?” Chris murmured, reaching to slide the back of his fingers along Tom’s downy cheek. “No fever.”

 

“I’m okay. I’m good.”

 

“You hungry?” Chris said, something playful coming back over his face.

 

Tom nodded again, thankful.

 

Chris patted his leg gently, murmuring, “Good.” He stood and Tom sat up. They were both fully clothed but Tom let the savoring effect of their night spent together seep into his blood, let the intimacy settle like a drowsy cat in his belly.

 

Content, Chris had said. Yes, that.

 

Tom’s woolen socks were fine to walk around in, so he led Chris down the hall to the kitchen. The windows were laced with frost, and the sky outside was dark and overcast with pregnant clouds. But it seemed like the storm was over, only the faintest flecks of snow still drifting down. Their footsteps echoed dully on the carpet running down the center of the floor, his own softer than Chris’s heavier steps. Beside him, Chris was angling his head up at the high ceilings, his gaze shooting every which way, alarm slowly spreading across his face.

 

Tom couldn’t help himself. “What’s wrong?” he asked, pushing into the kitchen.

 

“This place,” Chris whispered, his body relaxing slightly once inside the brighter lit, cozier room, with the humming refrigerator and ticking stove, the windows decorated with blue and green country curtains, someone’s attempt at hominess. “How do you stand being alone here?”

 

Opening the fridge and peering inside, Tom thought for a moment. “Don’t know. Guess it never bothered me before.”

 

Chris put a hand on the top of the fridge and asked, “But it does now?”

 

Straightening, Tom looked at him fully, slowly. “Yeah. I think so.”

 

There was something sad and knowing about Chris’s small smile, but just there beneath it was a lining of relief. As quick as it appeared it was gone, replaced by a wider grin.

 

“So, where’s the food?”

 

Tom showed him what he’d bought the day before and Chris set about eagerly with a handful of eggs, ham, and bread to toast.

 

“We can make the spaghetti a little later,” he said, moving about the small kitchen with familiarity, flicking the knobs on the stove, laying flat the cutting board and searching for the utensils in the drawers, reaching for oil and salt. The idea of spending more time with Chris was like something good and strong taking root in him, the slow blossoming of flowers late in an autumn season, stubborn and unexpected, but a delightful show of color in his somber and desolate emotional landscape.

 

The best thing to do with flowers is to admire and experience them, allow them to be.

 

He retreated to the rickety table and took a seat by the wall that displayed posters about flu shots and theatrical productions and an ultimate Frisbee competition that was five months old. Chris hummed while he worked, cracking the eggs into one pan and laying slices of ham into another. At one point, so entranced was Tom in watching Chris that he completely missed when he stopped abruptly and asked, “The toaster?”

 

Staring at one of his rounded biceps, several quiet moments passed before Tom finally snapped out of his daydreaming and blinked up at him.

 

“What?”

 

Chris smiled sweetly. “Where is your toaster?”

 

“Oh,” Tom said, swallowing thickly. His face felt afire as he pointed. “There. Bottom cabinet, by the fridge.”

 

Chris bent low to retrieve it and Tom stood quickly to avoid staring again, pulling open the refrigerator door and taking out a carton of orange juice.

 

They ate comfortably together, strange newness aside. It was a pleasant thing, watching Chris eat, the careful swoops he made with his fork to pick up egg and ham in one bite. Their teeth crunched through toast scraped with cold butter, juice glasses sweating onto the tabletop, their fingers inches from each other.

 

After the dishes were washed and dried and back in their places, he and Chris walked down to the main floor. Wind howled loudly through a jagged hole in the smashed pane of glass of the double front doors. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs and stared down at the shards of glass scattered on the entranceway floor, the eerie whistling and snow gathering in the front hall. Tom remembered vaguely the strange sounds he’d heard the night before, breaking glass and a faraway voice.

 

“I can fix that,” Chris said by way of what Tom assumed was an apology for breaking it in the first place. It must have been how he got in the building.

 

He smiled and bumped his elbow shyly. “There are cardboard boxes in the basement.”

 

While Chris covered the hole in the glass with cardboard and tape, Tom mopped up the melting snow, relieved the carpets had survived unscathed. The world was white outside, galactic dust from rumbling volcanoes on the deserted planet he lived on. But maybe deserted wasn’t the right word anymore.

 

“Will Samson be okay?” he murmured, their noses pressed to the windows in the front room.

 

“Should be,” Chris said softly, blue eyes darting over the wonderland outside. His lovely eyebrow rose and he peered down at Tom, a teasing question in his eyes. “Wanna go check with me?”

 

Tom hesitated. Leave school grounds? He hadn’t gone beyond the hedgerow since the day he visited the lake. He wasn’t sure he was ready.

 

“It’ll be okay,” Chris was saying, turning to face him, excitement gleaming in his eyes. “I have hot chocolate at the house. And a big fireplace. Samson likes to trot around the courtyard I fenced in by the side of the house. It lets him walk right up to the kitchen window, fog the glass with his snorts.” He laughed, and Tom was warmed by the sight. Crinkled eyes and row of teeth. He was beautiful all around, but his smile made him exquisite, resplendent with an inner light Tom envied and admired.

 

“Is it far?” he asked.

 

“Over the hills, it’s almost a half hour. But we can cut through the forest, by the lake, be there in ten minutes.”

 

Tom’s heart stuttered. “The l-lake?” he whispered.

 

“Yeah. Been there before? It’s gorgeous in the summer.”

 

Swallowing thickly, Tom nodded. “A couple of times.”

 

Heartened now, Chris took hold of Tom’s arms, squeezing gently. “We’ll get you bundled up. It’ll be worth it. I promise.” Eyebrows raised in question, Chris waited. When Tom didn’t immediately respond, he let his hands slowly slide down Tom’s arms and took hold of his hands, adding, “Samson will be so happy to see you again.”

 

Heat burst beneath Tom’s skin at the contact, holding hands with Chris, the close way they were standing, seeing up close every single long eyelash curled like a fawn’s. He squeezed his fingers, felt Chris squeeze in return, and smiled.

 

“Okay,” he whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

Bundled up he was indeed. He felt like the Michelin Man wearing two sweaters under a heavy zippered jacket, wool beanie, red scarf wrapped up to his eyes, tripping through the snow almost immediately after closing the doors behind them.

 

“You okay?” Chris shouted above the wind.

 

Throat locked up, Tom only nodded. But he didn’t pull back when Chris took his gloved hand and held on tightly. Together they slid and plowed down the hill to the main gate, shutting it once safely outside. Instead of heading straight out over the rolling white hills, Chris cut to the left into the forest, Tom’s hand still clasped in his own.

 

But Tom knew the way, had been through here before. Not much had changed about the path leading toward the lake. They were still in the deepest part of winter, snow piled higher after the storm during the night. There was a red-breasted cardinal singing just above them, crimson streaking through the thin air as it fluttered and followed their progress. The air in his chest grew tighter the closer they got to the lake, but he said nothing, only stepped where Chris cleared a path through the snow with his own long legs. When they made the clearing and began to walk around the edge of the lake, Tom couldn’t tear his gaze away from the dark object that lay at its very center.

 

A long black, twisted branch left, almost as if forgotten, right at the edge of a dark jagged hole only thinly veiled with new ice. Lay there like a relic of some ancient show of courage or wild, desolate abandon. In another lifetime perhaps. Before he’d known this kernel of gold to have been borne in his belly, stoked to quiet flame by crinkly blue eyes, long-fingered hands, the murmurings of horse and man and the giant wide expanse of sky without fear, guilt, regret.

 

And then they were past the far edge of the lake and Chris was tugging him back into the trees. It took them nearly fifteen minutes to navigate the trail burdened with fresh snow, but once they passed through the final few trees, Tom looked up and gasped.

 

The house was an enormous two story colonial of faded red brick and cracked white trim and window shutters. Four yellowed columns stood majestically in front, the base for a large wrap-around porch on the upper floor. To the right he could see the edges of what Chris referred to as a fenced-in courtyard where Samson liked to hang out, but it was beautifully done, white wood already crawling with vines. Despite its imposing elegance, there was an air of quiet neglect about the place, from the peeling paint to the high weeds skirting the foundation, smudged windows and water stains dripping from the roof.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Tom whispered, mouth open in awe.

 

Chris shrugged. “It used to be. But it’s a lot to keep up when it’s just me and a horse.”

 

“Where’s the barn?” Tom asked, eyes skimming the surrounding property, which was barely enough of a clearing before the woods began their patient encroaching.

 

“Around back. Come on. I’ll show you around.”

 

Tom followed Chris up the flattened path through the brittle weeds and dirty snow.

 

“How many rooms?”

 

“Six. And five bathrooms. Three staircases. Another that is supposedly a secret, but I’ve never found it.”

 

Tom laughed. “Probably behind an oil painting of some long-ago ancestor.”

 

“Trust me,” Chris said, smiling. “There are lots of paintings inside. Plenty of relatives. Could say it’s even a little crowded.”

 

They reached the front door and Chris pushed it open without using a key. Pausing in the sweeping foyer, Tom stared up and around, impressed. The wooden floors were scuffed but free of dust. A high staircase rose up directly before them before turning sharply to the left and continuing its ascent out of sight. A hallway stretched straight ahead adjacent to the stairs, revealing another, bigger room in the recesses of the house. To the left was a charming sitting room with four soft-cushioned chairs arranged around a low center table. An elegant white rug rested just beneath. To the right were open double doors in the French style, an open parlor of dark wood paneling and more comfortable looking sofa chairs before a giant fireplace.

 

“Kitchen and servants’ quarters are in the back, to the right. Library is in the back, to the left. Three rooms off to each side of the stairs above, a cluttered attic and even more cluttered basement beneath your feet.” Chris smiled, a little embarrassed.

 

“It’s like from a different time,” Tom breathed, taking cautious steps toward the parlor. There was a distinctive male ambiance there than the more feminine feel of the sitting room opposite it. He imagined men in top hats and silk cravats smoking cigars and playing billiards. Women in high-necked dresses with loose hairstyles, delicate fingers cradling hand-painted china cups filled with steaming tea.

 

“You said this was a farm,” he said. “It’s more like a mansion.”

 

“It used to be a successful farm, like a hundred years ago. But the fields have all gone to seed. Nothing grows there now. I inherited the place from my mother, who passed when I was a teenager. Been here all this time, trying to make it work.”

 

Chris appeared to be somewhere in his thirties. To be alone all that time, Tom couldn’t imagine the burden of it all. Or maybe, he could.

 

Pulling off his gloves, Tom shrugged out of his jacket and second sweater, toeing off his boots to let them dry by the door. He hung his scarf from a peg on the wall as Chris too removed his boots and jacket.

 

“Hot chocolate?”

 

Tom nodded eagerly and followed Chris down the hall, reaching to snag his hand again. This time, there was no moist cloth barrier. Just skin against skin, warm and dry, Chris’s rough palm to Tom’s soft one. Chris’s face lit up, a blush exploding up his neck and settling beautifully on his cheeks. Tom’s daring set his heart racing, his own face reddened in splotchy patches. It was an exhilarating, fascinating emotion, this newfound excitement. And it was with tender affection that he was grateful he pulled himself from the lake that terrible day, that he survived the exploding pain of the freezing water, that his body had been strong enough to carry him back to the school and into more of this life.

 

If he hadn’t, he would never have seen a horse trot his way into the university courtyard, would never have met a man whose skin smelled of the sun and whose voice was like the rumbles of distant thunder. Whose genuine kindness and gentle company set Tom at ease rather than spin his anxiety and rage into a whirlwind he almost never could find his way out of.

 

No. Feeling the raspy callouses of Chris’s hand in his own, the shy and happy grin he tossed his way, the small golden kernel of light in Tom’s belly gave a fluttering, pleasant pulse, warmth spreading to his chest.

 

He enjoyed spending time with Chris, touching him like this, a thrill zipping through him with the anticipation of touching him more in other ways, of perhaps having found someone who could care for him on his days when smiles came easily and days when his low points drove him into the sanctuary of his bed, somewhere dark and soft. Someone who would wait for him, be with him as he spiraled with emotions too large for his poor heart, too daunting for his mind at that moment in time. When everything was too much, too big, the colors muted.

 

Even now, the lonely, freezing dormitory on campus was a receding memory, and he was surprised to discover that he was okay with that.

 

There wasn’t anything scary about this, he thought, as they entered the huge kitchen and Chris led him to a small table placed before a wide window facing the woods. Nothing scary about wondering at the small possibility that he and Chris might one day – sooner even than he might hope – become something more. Because in the end, like called to like. And he had always recognized something in the unguarded moments when Chris’s face was a strange mixture of old sadness and faint, newer relief. Like he had passed through something Tom had not yet known for himself. Or was possibly experiencing this very moment. He had grown from it, Tom thought, watching Chris bring out the ingredients for the hot chocolate. And it made him lighter, an easiness that had settled over him and made him all the more beautiful. If he had overcome whatever horrors – the unnamable type of sadness that liked to hollow out only some of us – then Tom might come to believe he could too. It was as an old friend of his once told him.

 

The only way out is through.

 

Because, if there was anything he might look forward to in this world, it was seeing how the wild sunflowers would burst into bloom, whether of the earth, or of himself. Transformation was a startling little bird alighting on his shoulder, waving a wing in hello.

 

They sat on the sofa before the fire most of that day, sipping hot chocolate and talking quietly. In slow increments, they shifted closer together until Tom finally closed the breach between them and, with a shy dip of his head, cuddled into Chris’s side. There was the smell of pale clove and summer warmth, like apricot brandy. In the deepest part of these winter woods, Chris had the adorable nerve to smell like a boozy dessert and it made Tom’s heart flutter in dizzy delight as he nosed against the soft skin of his neck.

 

Chris stilled for a brief moment, arm hung aloft as Tom settled himself. But then he wrapped him a little tighter against him and they both sighed softly. Bellies full, it was moments before they got more comfortable and napped for a short while, stretched out long and lazy on the sagging cushions, tangled up like gentle drunks. It was only later, when the fire embers were glowing low and the wind had picked up its whistle, did Tom startle from sleep at the ghostly sound of a panicked whinny, an echo fading as his consciousness took hold and he blinked around at the darkened room.

 

Chris was still asleep, eyes moving tenderly under his pale lids, lashes long and lush. Still a little dazed, Tom brushed a thumb across his cheek, smiled when Chris stirred with a small noise like a drowsy cat.

 

And then – sharper and louder – there was another whinny and Chris’s eyes flew open, panic widening them.

 

“Samson,” he slurred, and made to get up.

 

“Isn’t he in the barn?” Tom asked, moving to give Chris more room. They both straightened and stood up. They shoved their feet into their boots, left discarded on the rug.

 

“He is. But he’s alarmed. Come on.”

 

“Alarmed?” Tom said, fear rising in him. He followed Chris quickly through the house. “But he’s okay? Holy cow!”

 

Chris pulled a rifle from the closet in the front hallway and cracked it open, stuffing in two red plastic cylinders stored on a high shelf and shoving more into the pockets of his jeans. Snapping it back together, Tom flinched and shrank back a bit, but Chris put a comforting hand on the crown of his head, sliding it low to cup his cheek, squeezing sweetly.

 

“Stay behind me. Let’s go.”

 

They hurried out the back door. Wearing only sweaters, the cold sliced through the thin material like stabbing knives, but they continued on, cutting through the thick snow with their legs, slow but steady. The barn – a dark wooden structure of a maddening height – loomed in the distance, and there, just outside…

 

“Are those—?” Tom started, his heart rising into his throat.

 

“Wolves,” Chris confirmed, something calm and angry deepening his voice, slinking into the core of Tom’s being, exciting and assuaging him. He didn’t feel as afraid with Chris there, rifle already rising toward the low slinking figures circling the barn, trying to sniff a way in.

 

Tom had barely a moment to slap hands over his ears when the first shot exploded in the blinding white. A shock of dark birds erupted into the sky like spilled ink over the forest, and one of the wolves yelped in pain. It hobbled sideways, red blooming on his hindquarters as the other three swung snarling faces in his and Chris’s direction.

 

Chris was practically snarling himself, lip curled up as he reloaded with swift efficiency and cocked the gun once more. Another shot fired and the wood splintered behind the closest wolf, a huge chunk blown out of the corner of the barn. The predators scattered in retreat, abandoning the injured wolf lying in the steaming snow, eyes already dimming.

 

Samson whinnied in fear from within the barn and Chris grabbed Tom’s hand, pushing forward again. At the large double doors, Chris handed the gun to Tom – who gaped at it and held it as if a live bomb – and turned to lift the heavy wooden beam that secured the doors closed. Inside, Samson was circling the large center space, hooves clopping anxiously on the dirt floor. He reared onto his hind legs when the doors fell open, eyes rolling, snorting angrily. His distress bled into Tom’s bones, and he watched helplessly as Chris rushed forward with soft, gentling words, hands up in calm supplication. The horse landed heavily on his front legs, head angled down and in, clearly offended at everything.

 

“They’re gone, they’re gone,” Chris whispered, soothing Samson’s nose with the palm of his hand, the other trailing through his blond mane. There were nettles and bits of hay caught in the silky strands, and Tom was once again amazed at its length. Still, he couldn’t help but smile at the amused outrage evident in the horse’s bearing, as if saying _you were totally sleeping while I was almost eaten alive thanks a lot._

“Is he okay?” he asked, leaning down to place the rifle against the wall. Its weight was foreign and uncomfortable in his hands. He didn’t like it.

 

Smiling now, Chris had an arm thrown over the horse’s long neck, patting him like an old friend. “Yeah, he’s all right. Nothing some oats won’t fix. Huh? You want some oats?” he said quietly, taking the horse’s face in both hands and bringing their foreheads together. Samson’s tail flicked and he stomped a hoof.

 

Chris showed him around the barn, where he kept the packs of hay piled, the barrels with feed and water, the upper loft cluttered with old furniture and chests filled with decades’ worth of belongings. “I have to chase off field mice who build their nests here and get into Samson’s food, but it’s pretty isolated. The wolves only really show during the winter.”

 

Stepping closer to him, Tom let his hand drift through Samson’s mane, pulling out bits of dry grass, and then setting it gently just over Chris’s hand. Chris eyed him over the top of Samson’s neck, something kind and playful softening his gaze. He laced his fingers through Tom’s, and their skin was cold and vibrating. It set Tom’s heart into a happy little frenzy, the buzzing spreading up his arm and through his ribcage.

 

“You hungry?” Chris asked, and Tom realized for possibly the first time in a long time that he was ravenous.

“Yes,” he breathed, smiling widely. Happiness – rare and flowering – brimmed out of him in a sudden wave that left tears pricking the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t the request to be fed – although the care and concern was touching – but the simple recognition that he’d wanted to feel visible to someone, had craved what he had been unable to name up to this point. Had it been bitterness? Jealousy even? He didn’t believe the terrible weight on his heart could be dwindled down to only those two things; there was a myriad of threads making up the greater tapestry of his depression. But it was hard to deny the sparking ecstasy Chris had begun to awaken in him, that nugget of glowing gold that rotated patiently inside him, gaining speed with every glance Chris gave him.

 

Like that very moment, with Chris’s eyes trained on him, jumping over Tom’s face, soaking in every detail. The tears, the smile, his soft blushing cheeks. He was breathless when Chris ducked under Samson’s neck and reached for him with open arms. It was such an easy thing to collapse against him, tears finally spilling as he breathed and smiled, honey warmth and Chris’s scent engulfing him.

 

“You’re a sweet, tender little thing, aren’t you?” Chris murmured into his neck, making chills erupt down Tom’s spine. He rose on his tiptoes, deepening the embrace, and Chris chuckled. “Need more hugs I think. Not used to touching, are you?”

 

Biting back a whimper, Tom could only shake his head quickly and cry into Chris’s hair.

 

“But it’s the most wonderful thing,” Chris whispered, pulling back slightly and cupping both hands on either side of Tom’s face. His thumbs brushed over the rolling tears. “I’m going to have to right this wrong, aren’t I?” he mused aloud, and Tom’s laugh was a gust of breath. “Yes, I believe I do. Lots of hugging. I can do that. Lots of hand holding?” His brows lifted, and Tom nodded eagerly. “What else, then, beautiful boy? What can I do to make you happy?”

 

God. For being so long without words, millions were swirling around in his head that very moment, all bustling to spill from his lips a truth he’d deprived himself of, and it was simply too much.

 

“See me,” he breathed, eyes jumping over every bit of Chris’s handsome face, his fingers trailing the long strands falling over his forehead, sinking in to scratch lightly at his scalp. And the purr he made, that soft sweet sound down in his chest, nuzzling deeper into Tom’s neck, it was playful and sensual and intimate in a way Tom had never known.

 

He wanted to drown in it. Let it consume him. Give himself freely to it. Let it live inside him and make him okay.

 

“I see you,” Chris said softly. “I do. I have since the very first moment. A ghost, an angel, a snow spirit, I had no idea what I’d laid my eyes on!” He laughed shyly. “But I saw you and I haven’t been able to think of anything else. And I’ll continue to see you, Tom. There’s no way I can’t. Not anymore.”

 

Sighing his name, Tom sagged against him and they stood there swaying as Samson grazed the floor for any forgotten pieces of oats.

 

Against his neck, he felt the tickle of Chris’s smile and thought, strangely and wondrously, that this might be the start of his very personal something.


	6. Chapter 6

The first day of the spring semester dawned with a ferocious southern wind. It cut sharply through campus and whistled into every building’s nooks and crannies and rattled the bare branches of the tall trees. Droves of students hurried to their classes, sloshing through snow and slush, slipping along the slicked pathways, laughing and catching up after the winter break. Tom sat at his desk and prepared his binders with fresh paper, sharpened his pencils, and stacked his textbooks into his backpack, smiling as he thought of Chris’s dark widow’s peak.

 

After leaving the barn, Chris walked him back into the kitchen and cooked him a rabbit stew and hot cheese sandwiches. They ate and grinned at each other sitting before the crackling fire, steam framing their faces. And after, clean dishes stacked in the plastic drainer, fire brought low, and Samson back in the barn, Chris showed Tom upstairs to his bedroom. It was big and spacious, with high ceilings and three big country windows with light green curtains spotted with dust. The walls were whitewashed, light brown trim running the length of the floor and ceiling.

 

It seemed there was an unspoken agreement that Tom would not return to the empty, cold dorms on campus. At least not that night. Just the thought sent a shiver down his back, already attached to the golden warmth and old elegance of the farmhouse, of the gentle man before him.

 

In the quiet, they toed off their soggy boots and pushed them to the corner. Pulling back the covers from the bed, Chris slowly straightened and waited a brief moment. When Tom nodded, Chris reached forward and touched the hem of his sweatshirt, fingers slipping under to graze the smooth skin of Tom’s belly. Tom sucked in a quiet breath but held still, eyes trained on the pulse point of Chris’s neck, the solid and quickened beat there. His hands hung suspended by his hips, trembling slightly as Chris tugged up his sweatshirt and pulled it over Tom’s head. His plain white T-shirt hung crookedly on his frame, chest rising and falling as he struggled to stay calm. There was only kindness on Chris’s face, open and soft, a thrilling hunger in his eyes, on his tender parted lips. It made Tom feel precious and small, a pale diamond nestled on the crown of an imposing mountain.

 

He stepped forward then and pressed his palms to Chris’s chest, absorbed the hard strength. When he slid them up to curve over his broad shoulders, Chris dipped his head as Tom rose onto his toes and their lips brushed once, twice, a third time, deepening as he moaned quietly and slipped out his tongue.

 

It was as if a small chasm opened up under him and he felt the world tip as he let go. Tongues brushing, fingers curling, throats flushing, they danced back a couple of steps and Tom realized, quite deliriously, that Chris was holding most of his weight, his knees slack, socked toes grazing the floor.

 

Moving along his jaw, Chris peppered him with butterfly kisses, breath gusting his skin. Mouthing at his neck, Chris groaned brokenly, a man starving, a man satiating thirst and hunger and desire, bestowing him with worship.

 

Skin heated, Tom took a fistful of Chris’s hair and hung on for his dear life, eyes rolling up as a bruise formed at his throat and he dropped his head back for more. He couldn’t stop his body from shaking, the tremors starting at the top of his spine and cascading down to the tips of his curling toes. Feeling him shiver, Chris clasped him closer and whispered his name, his enormous hand spread wide at the base of Tom’s backbone.

 

“Easy,” he breathed, voice ragged, thigh bumping roughly between Tom’s own. They stumbled a step, both grasping at the other more tightly. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His cheek rubbed softly at Tom’s. “I got you.”

 

They simply slept that first night. Rid of their jeans and T-shirts, they climbed under the covers in only their undershorts. Already the cold was seeping in by the edges of the windows, no matter the heavy curtains hanging over them. Somewhere deep in the belly of the house, the furnace was rumbling steadily, warm air pluming through the vents and saturating pockets of the house with heat. The middle of the bed dipped with their combined weight, blankets tucked around them with care amid breathy giggles and stolen kisses. Finally settled, they rested against each other, belly to belly, feet flipping lazily together, chests pressed tightly as Tom burrowed against Chris and stifled a jaw-cracking yawn.

 

Humming happily, he drifted aimlessly in the cavern of his mind, hands rubbing loosely at Chris’s broad back, face nestled into the space between Chris’s neck and shoulder, a little drunk from his honey scent and the buzzing of his lips.

 

That had been six days ago and each one had been spent at the farm with Chris and his adventurous horse. They had kissed and petted, memorized freckle constellations and discovered just where to tickle. Between watching Chris chop wood or learning how to ride on Samson’s back, they would fall into the other’s steady orbit and draw themselves closer and closer to a brink in their physical pleasure that both were cautious about approaching. Chris knew Tom was nervous, that he had only just recently emerged from a bout of a depression that wouldn’t ever really leave him, but that could possibly, with the right care and attention, be persuaded to even out and remain steady and manageable. Spiraling into such bitter despair was painful enough alone; how might it be different if in a relationship with someone as loving and patient and supportive as Chris was?

 

Tom wasn’t sure, but he was more than willing enough to try. And with one semester left before graduation, it seemed plenty of time to find out.

 

Upon returning the day before to prepare for the first day of school, Tom had been anxious about the broken glass panel in the front door. But he was surprised to discover it had already been fixed, and even more surprised when no one approached him about it. In fact, no one even glanced his way as he walked down the third floor hallway, boots squelching from the snow, wrapped up in one of Chris’s long-sleeve fleece shirts and jean jacket with the sheepskin collar, cuffs folded up to his wrists. Everything smelled of him, and Tom took comfort in that as he pushed into the dorm room and fell back against the door with a sigh of relief.

 

And so he attended his classes. He ate his meals. He took his showers. He did his assignments and researched his projects, looking forward to with quiet desperation the moment Chris would use the code he gave him for the dorm hall and sneak upstairs to his room. So far they had never been caught, Chris always careful about watching for when the halls and stairways were empty of people. But he would be there, almost every night, and they would mumble into each other’s mouths as they moved their hips and pushed greedily and desperately for that final irresistible wave.

 

And how he drowned and gasped under the rolling weight of it, Chris panting in his ear, big hands curled under and over his shoulders to keep him right there. Tom would wake up the next morning with an enormous man dead asleep on him and his neck sore with fresh hickeys. It was with near glee that he hid them most of that chilly spring under scarves and thick sweaters, delight at their existence buoying him through his day.

 

As April bled into May, Tom was spending more time at the farm than at the dorm hall. His classes were dwindling to a close, as was his career as a student. He’d had a relatively stable semester, with the exception of the two times he’d fallen into a mental low point and couldn’t rouse himself from bed. Chris was there, immediately, spooning him in bed and murmuring sweet words about how much Samson missed him, how the honeysuckles were blooming in the orchard, the bees fat and lazy buzzing in the golden air.

 

“The forest is a green wonderland for the taking,” he’d said the first time, arms around Tom from behind as he rocked him slowly, Tom’s tears splashing off the bridge of his nose and soaking into the pillow. Chris’s mouth was at the base of his blond curls, whispering. “There’s a tree house I built when I was ten. I need your help to find it. Fairies have probably overtaken it by now. I’ll need your beauty to charm them into releasing my territory back to me.” He’d squeezed Tom when he smiled faintly, and held him for the rest of the night.

 

“I’ll weave you a flower crown,” Chris promised the second time, holding Tom as he sobbed into his chest. “The rose bushes have grown wild by the stables. Big red blooms, heady with sweet fragrance. Will you wear a crown for me, my darling?” He pulled back and cradled the back of Tom’s skull to look into his eyes swimming with tears. “These beautiful golden curls crushed with a rose crown. I’ll have to fight the bees from stealing you from me, my love.” Tom must have blinked, because Chris smiled and smoothed a thumb over his cheek, wiping his tears away. “I do,” he said softly. “I’ve loved you all this time.”

 

As the semester neared its end, most of Tom’s things were now at Chris’s farm. There was nothing left that he would miss. The room was as if no one had ever occupied it. He’d decided to forego attending the graduation ceremony. Walking across a stage to accept a blank piece of paper from the Dean was not something he wanted to do. They could mail him his diploma, he decided. Whenever it happened would be fine.

 

By June he was settled and living comfortably with Chris and their ornery horse Samson. That summer was vibrant with rattling cicadas and hot gusting winds, thick green forest canopies and bubbling brooks. As with that first trip back to campus from Chris’s house, he’d actively avoided walking near the lake. There was something that spooked him about it, something despairingly heavy about the air and the stillness of the surface. He didn’t like being there and so Chris never took him there. But the surrounding land was theirs for the claiming, and they explored to their hearts’ content. They eventually found the treehouse of Chris’s youth. It was adorable going through the childhood detritus he’d left behind. Ratty baseballs and moldy blankets, Red Sox lineups nailed to the walls, a picture of a gap-toothed Chris with a shaky-legged young colt that Tom quickly realized was Samson. There were water-ruined children’s books stacked in a corner, a rusted hunting knife still in its black leather sheath, several dusty toy cars strewn on the floor.

 

In the evenings, they cooked together and ate out on the veranda, gnats and mosquitos kept at bay by the fine netting Chris had hung in place over the balcony rails.

 

Before long, school and that echoing old dorm hall were distant memories, fading as quickly as those of his last semester. His sadness and melancholy became less and less frequent. He busied himself with cleaning that grand old house, Chris working beside him as the started in the attic and worked their way down through each floor, ending finally in the basement. They found a treasure trove of family history, photo albums and silverware, sets of cracked china and oil portraits of long dead ancestors. Anything that was unsalvageable was tossed outside to burn. Broken wooden furniture, bumpy mattresses, mothy clothing and other linens, all went into the bonfire Chris created in the barren field just behind the barn. Dancing nervously in the shadows behind them, Samson nickered and snorted as he trotted in circles, finally retreating to the courtyard where he liked to look in through the kitchen window.

 

The most exciting thing happened just as summer dwindled to a close. Tom was sweeping the creaking floorboards in the third bedroom to the right of the landing one evening when he felt a strange draft. Hesitating, he held very still and listened. And there, picking up the faint whisper of air, he pressed his hand to the wall and pushed. The fake panel gave easily, an inch of something dark just beyond. Ecstatic, Tom dropped the broom and used both arms to slide the rusty door to the right, a long shadowed stairwell dropping out of sight. Cobwebs and layers of dust coated everything, but he braved it, too excited to run outside and fetch Chris. Lighting one of the candles on the mantle above the fireplace, Tom braced his hand on the jamb and tested the first step for weak wood or rot. But it held his weight, surprisingly sturdy. Down he went, cobwebs catching in his hair, snagging on his shirt, his footprints disturbing the decades’ old dirt. The candlelight flickered over the cold stone walls, illuminating the old rafters above. Sweat beaded on his nose, the heat stifling in this unused part of the house. The stairs went straight down and ended in a narrow dead-end. Holding the candle steady in one hand, he used the other to turn the small, simple knob halfway up from the floor. Something inside the wall groaned and then the wall popped in toward him. Sliding it to the left, he gasped when he discovered he was in the library. The doors from the hallway were closed, a small fire crackling in the hearth, the pile of books on one of the side tables just as he left it.

 

Grinning, he blew out the candle and set the holder on the mantle. He found Chris in the courtyard on a ladder, scrubbing one of the columns supporting the wrap around porch.

 

“Chris! Oh my god, you won’t believe what I found!”

 

Glancing down at him, Chris did a double take and then scrambled down the ladder. “What the hell happened to you? Are you okay?” He touched Tom’s hair, horror on his face, and Tom remembered he was probably covered in spider webs.

 

“I’m fine, I promise.” He took Chris’s hand. “Come with me!”

 

He showed him the entrance in the library, and they climbed to the second floor where the stairs led to the third bedroom.

 

Awe and disbelief etched over Chris’s features, mouth parted as he took in a part of his house he’d never known actually existed.

 

“What could it have been used for?”

 

Tom shrugged. “Maybe someone in your distant past really loved to read. Straight shot to the library.”

 

Both covered in webs now, Chris threw an arm over his shoulder and laughed, hugging him close. “Up for some more cleaning?”

 

Standing up on his tiptoes, Tom kissed his cheek and whispered yes. 

 

The house was free of dust and clutter by the end of September. The air was permeated with the scent of clean pine and baked pastries, hot stews and hot chocolate. In the evenings, they would walk arm in arm through the woods, smiling up at the canopies as leave and feathers from curious birds sprinkled down at them, a bouquet of flowers clutched loosely in Tom’s hand. And at night, as the moon in all her phases shone down on their small bubble of the world, as Chris would push into him and Tom could finally exhale in exquisite relief, their kisses and murmurs and small sighs were as star light on his skin, shaping their constellations into a map he used to find his way through the sadness and terrible defeat toward the constant beauty and comfort of home, arrived at last.


	7. Chapter 7

Epilogue:

 

Dean Fitzgerald’s coffee was growing cold in the cup he carried from his car to his office, juggling his briefcase, keys, and cell phone in his other hand. His morning had been hectic indeed. Several months had passed and still there were random reporters calling him about what had happened over winter break. He told them what he told all the others: _Our student’s death was a terrible tragedy and we send our sympathies and support as a university to his loved ones and friends._

 

Not that the poor boy had any, from what they had discovered. Well-behaved but reclusive and painfully shy, Tom had been a typical loner. Fitzgerald and the other administrators had conducted a quiet investigation into the young man who had spent every winter and summer break on campus rather than travel home like everyone else. He’d managed good grades, was an excellent essay writer, attended his classes and had no complaints lodged against him. When the head groundskeeper had returned to campus a few days before the students were expected to arrive, he’d found a broken pane of glass in the front door of the dormitory hall, snow and water soaking the rug and tiled floor of the foyer. The building was completely empty, the boy’s dorm room unlocked and vacant. The bedspread rumpled, drawers and cabinets still filled with his clothing and other belongings.

 

At first, after he was informed of the discoveries, he thought Tom had left for the holidays after all. It would have been unusual, but perhaps a friend had invited him to tag along home. But after the first two weeks of the swift frenzy of a new semester, a general absence report alerted him to Tom’s lack of attendance for all of his classes. He’d sent his assistant to inquire with the other students if anyone had seen him. The general consensus had been that no one had seen that one quiet kid since before the fall break had ended.

 

That was when Fitzgerald notified the police. After questioning revealed that the student had no living family and no emergency contacts listed, Fitzgerald was left with the only option of filing a missing person report.            

 

Months passed and Fitzgerald was wracked with guilt about what might have happened to Tom. Had he dropped out of school without telling anyone? The broken glass pane was a note of suspicion for the police; did it mean Tom had been attacked, hurt somehow?

 

More mysterious were the growing reports from students living in the dorm hall of voices and noises they were unable to explain. Showers turning on on their own. Water pooled in the elevator. A coffee mug that everyone had sworn they never used moved around when no one was looking. Doors closing on squeaky hinges in the dead of night. Puzzle pieces found randomly in the hall and on the stairs. Fitzgerald was unable to make anything of it. He tried his best to reassure the students that the building was very old and would occasionally make sounds that might be frightening. But there was a palpable air of unease for the first couple of months, the mystery of Tom’s disappearance rattling more people than he might have believed.

 

Nothing was confirmed until the snow began melting in early April. A couple of hunters were resting by the side of the lake when they witnessed the first cracking of the ice. The surface of the lake splintered down the middle and the hunters jumped to their feet, whooping excitedly, hats clasped in their hands as they rushed to the bank and stared out. Their excitement was diminished as from out of the wide crack, a figure bobbed into view, dark sweater and purple scarf just barely concealing the telltale blond hair, the curve of a gray ear.

 

Panicked and out of cell phone range, one of the hunters ran to the nearest place for help – the university. Campus security alerted the police and medical services swarmed the lake to drag the body out. It would seem like Tom had fallen in sometime during the winter, whether on purpose or accident they would never know. No note was ever found. What sense could they make of it? A young life cut so short, it was a terrible sadness. One that the university was burdened to answer for.

 

Striding through the administration building, Fitzgerald nodded at his assistant Janine, who hurried down the hall with several packets to deliver to other departments. One of the Chemistry professors fell into step with him.

 

“Morning, sir.”

 

“How are you, Arty? Finals going okay?”

 

“So far, yes. Students are testing well. A couple of poor grades, but I’ll see them next semester I’m sure.”

 

Fitzgerald nodded and stopped by the mail slots in the business office. Flyers for upcoming seminars, pamphlets for new scientific equipment, inter-departmental letters from fellow deans and faculty. An envelope from a local beat reporter.

 

Arty glanced up from his own mail, eyes catching the name. “Still trying to get a story from it?”

 

Fitzgerald blinked and shoved the envelope to the bottom of the pile. “Still. I imagine they’ll move on to other things eventually.”

 

“I always found it odd.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Well, if it was a suicide, that would have been the second in as many years.”

 

“What? What do you mean? We’ve had no other students die.”

 

“No I mean from the community. We’re usually known for our idyllic scenery and liberal, educated citizens. All very calm and reasonable. What would cause someone to off themselves, in a place as welcoming and resourceful as this?”

 

“Who else killed themselves?” Fitzgerald pressed.

 

“There was a man, couple of years ago. Owned a farm I think, but he was found in the woods, wrists slashed, bled out right into the dirt. He’d been out there for weeks before he was found. I can’t recall his story now, if it was financial ruin or amorous misadventure, I’m speculating of course. But the poor guy lost all hope too. Bitter shame. I hope we don’t see any repeats.” Arty gave him a reserved smile, gathered his things, and left.

 

Fitzgerald watched the man go, his coffee now tepid in its container. He hadn’t heard of that other story, but it wasn’t so surprising, what with his workload and attention dedicated to the university and its affairs.

 

Poor souls, he thought, fishing for the right key to unlock his office. He hoped with all his heart that wherever they were, they were happy now.

 

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> Please remember:
> 
> "Depression is also smaller than you. Always, it is smaller than you, even when it feels vast. It operates within you, you do not operate within it. It may be a dark cloud passing across the sky but - if that is the metaphor - you are the sky. You were there before it. And the cloud can't exist without the sky, but the sky can exist without the cloud." ~Matt Haig, Reasons to Stay Alive
> 
> All my love. x


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